


2doc Week 2020

by supposed2bfunny



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: 2doc - Freeform, 2doc Week, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Song fic, The usual levels of nonsensical chicanery, general stupidity, references to alcoholism and substance abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24664279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposed2bfunny/pseuds/supposed2bfunny
Summary: A collection of mini-fics following the prompts from this year's 2doc Week over on Tumblr.
Relationships: Murdoc Niccals/Stuart "2D" Pot
Comments: 8
Kudos: 62





	1. Favorite Lyrics

**Author's Note:**

> Day One: Favorite Gorillaz Lyrics
> 
> Lyrics are from "Empire Ants."

_Little memories, marching on  
Your little feet, working the machine  
Will it spin, will it soar  
My little dream, working the machine_

It’s not often that it happens, but when it does, it’s paralyzing. The awe he feels, a psychic reaction to the aura that pours from the man, seeps out of him like sap running down trees in orchards when spring enters the air.

Murdoc is a twisted, troubled, awful person, of that there can be no doubt. But he is not incapable of beauty. 

Stu thinks of the rainbows reflected in puddles of gasoline in parking lots. He thinks of the tender downy feathers that remain in the grass after a pigeon hawk strikes its prey. He thinks of the first flowers that push their way out of earth that has been charred by forrest fires. He looks down at the hot pink paint splashed over the shore of Plastic Beach. 

What horror, and yet: what beauty. That these two sentiments can coexist in a man’s perception is more troubling than comforting. 

Such was Murdoc an hour ago, bent over the mixer, headphones on so he didn’t hear Stu approaching him. Beside him were the scrawled lyrics to one of the songs he’d been working through, and his focus, the raw pain on his face as he scrambled between his words and the sound he was trying to create, it was breathtaking.

Now, crouched on the edge of the beach and watching discarded water bottles and fishing nets lap at the artificial pink shore, Stu tries to will his heart to stop aching.

If only he’d been better at the whole meditation thing, maybe if he’d just taken the Buddhist teachings a little more seriously, he could be less shallow.

But Stu is a man who is enamored with beautiful things. If it’s shiny, or brightly colored, if it looks mundane but catches the light in unexpected ways, it pulls something out of him, a sort of feeling, longing, a desperate need to hold.

The ambition that has kept Murdoc alive for this many years, that feistiness, that certainty in his own artistic vision, is one of those things that even now, Stu appreciates. He wants off the island. He wants to crawl into a submarine or hop into a rowboat and cast off and never hear of the Satanist again, to drink and pop pills and fuck until he can’t remember what Murdoc’s face looks like.

More than anything, he wants to see this album succeed. 

He wants to sing for Murdoc, to nurture that compassion that lies, nestled deep within his lyrics where no one else can perceive them. To bring this song, this album to life, and place the last remaining life vest around it, even if it leaves him stranded in the graygreenblack waves that pitch the island constantly like an invisible hand, endlessly rocking a cradle.

There is such fragile beauty in the art that Murdoc curates just for him, and Stu is alarmed and empowered by his own gluttony for it.


	2. Favorite 2doc Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Two: Favorite non-Gorillaz 2doc Song
> 
> "The Clouds" by Republic of Wolves

_I’ve been waiting on a response for days  
There’s been a complication  
It seems your heart needed a break  
From pumping the blood through your veins  
And keeping the oxygen okay  
I still see your face in the day  
And I see your eyes in the bottle that was way too tall  
I finished it just to see if we could talk  
Now I’m speaking with your ghost again  
It’s telling me that I don’t listen  
Can we be friends in another lifetime  
I might pretend  
That we are night now_

He’s nowhere. Nowhere in the United Kingdom. Which is fine, except that if you don’t find him, he’s going to die. The Black Clouds will find him and do what they did to Noodle, and then they’ll kill Russel and when they’ve shot up the entire band, they’ll come for you like they promised, come and make you die die die.

It doesn’t matter though, you’ll beat them to it. You just need to finish composing the album, recording the album, getting the album out there. As long as you can put it out into the world, it doesn’t matter what the Black Clouds do to you.

None of it’s going to matter at the rate this planet is dying, anyway.

But back to the matter at hand: they will come for Stuart. You have to find him first. There is no other option. It’s find the idiot or bury his corpse. All you need is to find where his heart is beating, to isolate the continent, country, hotel lobby where he draws breath.

But after all that went down with Noodle, it’s understandable that he’d want to travel, that he’d want to wind up as far away from you as possible. He’d put oceans, solar systems between the two of you if he only could.

Because he knows it’s all your fault

all your fault all of this is your faultyourfaultyourfault.

Whatever. You’ll seek him out anyway. Find him wherever the hell he is. Your destinies are intertwined, after all. No matter what happens, you’ll make sure he comes out of this safe, preferably cushioned by some cashflow from whatever the hell your magnum opus is going to be called (really should work on a name).

In the meantime, you have sources to track him down, to find him. There is black magic out there, and there are always those willing to hunt down your prey for you as long as you’re willing to pay. He is a nightmare; something about the way he looks at you reminds you of your father. They call him The Boogieman.

_I summoned demons from a dying dream  
I took a long walk off a short levee  
I drank the poison from a black moon seed  
And then I saw you_

__

__

_I felt your kiss in a dream I had  
I felt your skin in a monument_

_Then I went home to live a brand new life without you  
And buried all our things  
Beneath the giant shadows of the clouds  
And they still stay there underground  
But no matter what I do  
I never will stop talking to you_

The Boogieman delivers on his promise, and Stuart is on the shores of Plastic Beach within a week’s time.

Even when you start leaving his door unlocked, Stuart doesn’t leave his room. Not at first, anyway. When he finally does, he goes straight to the beach, starts pacing around, collecting debris, excavating for signs of life on the artificial shore. You try to tempt him with music, sitting around with your cap pulled down over your eyes, strumming an acoustic. Other times, you use the speaker system you installed to play some of his favorite tunes. You leave the types of ale he prefers sitting out on the kitchen counter, order the Cyborg to let him know he can help himself whenever he’s thirsty.

Stuart doesn’t take the bait. He keeps as far away from you as possible when he’s not in the recording studio, and then, he only breaks his stony silence to ask questions about key changes or pronunciations when he reads your lyrics, listens to your demos.

You present countless opportunities for him to peak out at you, just a moment of eye contact is all you need to convey it all to him, that you did this for him. In the middle of the ocean out here, all you need is a second to get through to him that the two of you are alone out here not because of any inherent cruelty, but because of your genius, because you are destined to be together like this.

Staring out at the gray blue waters, you think it might not be so hard to tell him that you felt your soul slip out of you a little bit the day you first beheld him with blood on his face and two black eyes staring out at you; it broke away from your body to twine around his, and you haven’t been a whole person ever since.

If he’d only look at you, maybe you could get these words out, even more coherently than you did when you condensed your life into a tattered composition book, and then condensed the contents of that book into a handful of songs. 

Day after day, you will him to look up, to step closer to hear the confessions that bubble on the tip of your tongue, brine-tasting and thick. You’ve always been a coward with your heart, but you’ve been drinking enough lately to reason with yourself: it’s not really putting your heart on the line since it already belongs to Stuart. All you’d be doing is asking for a piece of it back.

_I never did get the last word in  
And you said I always did_


	3. Firsts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Three: Firsts
> 
> First time Murdoc calls Stu his boyfriend

The bar is mostly empty, which means it must be going on three or so. Some locals remain, as do a few drunks who are too tired to move. There’s a couple sat at one of the front tables: the girl is crying; the boy is spinning his dead cellphone nervously as he tries to talk her down. ABBA is playing on the speaker over the booth where 2D and Murdoc are sitting. 

It’s perfectly surreal, and it suits the musicians just fine. They’re sat across from each other, 2D’s sneakered foot is rubbing against Murdoc’s ankle every so often, and more than once, Murdoc has grabbed 2D’s wrist in his drunken excitement, pulled it across the table, and kissed the back of his hand, or his palm.

It’s nice.

“This bartender,” Murdoc says, flicking the empty shells of some peanuts that sit between them on the table, which 2D had munched on hours ago, “he reminds me of someone from our last tour. Who is it?”

“Umm,” 2D spins his tongue along the rim of his beer bottle, turning to stare none-too-subtly at the bartender. “Bald? Dunno. Sure he wasn’t a backstage techie?”

“No, not his baldness, dumbass, his nose and goatee. Reminds me of…someone.”

“Sort of looks like Count Chocula to me.”

“What?” Murdoc snorts, nearly choking on a sip of ale. “Who?”

“The bloke from that cereal! From America! Russel introduced it to us. He had a goatee, I think.”

“But a vampire? Mate, this guy doesn’t look like a vampire.”

“Then who’s he remind you of?” he challenges, kicking the older man’s shin lightly beneath the table. 

“Dunno, he reminds me of someone from one of our tours. We were touring _Humanz_ , I think.”

“Oh that was ages, ago, Muds. Don’t think I’d remember the backup musicians we had with us.”

“Pity, we had some top notch players for that tour. Vienna? We were solid!”

“The four of us really had our mojo on then too,” 2D agrees. “Remember you and Noods just riffing, trading bars, sounding crazy. Like Titans clashing on Mount Vesuvius!”

“Mount Olympus, but I appreciate the simile,” he chuckles, reaching for the singer’s hand yet again, pressing his lips to his knuckles. “You didn’t sound so bad yourself then, if my admittedly liquor-spotted memory serves.”

“Muds, you always say that I sound good live,” he giggles. 

Murdoc sets his drink down, taps the table in his excitement. “Well duh, Tweedle-Dee, you were born to perform! With your looks and your voice, on a stage is where you’re meant to be. It’s like seeing a king assuming his gilded throne!”

“I get a few drinks into you and you become a world-class flatterer, don’t you?”

“You should see what I’ll do after a few dozen,” he says with a wink.

2D’s eyes flit away from the bartender, whose visage could be similar to anyone’s at this point; they’ve lost interest in that conversation, in him. The singer scans the shitty decor, the dead bug-flecked lights and the vinyl discs displayed above the bar. It’s a real dive, this place, and it’s perfect. The ultimate destination to get lost with Murdoc for hours reminiscing, drinking, taking in the way the dim lights soften Murdoc’s features, to savor the way he smiles more readily when they’re in a place people won’t recognize or bother them.

“D’you really think that I’m still, you know, up to par when I perform live?” he asks after a moment.

Murdoc’s flirty smile shifts; his own mismatched eyes shunt from 2D’s restless hands to his face, to his hands again, trying to gauge where the conversation is going. “I wouldn’t bother saying it if I didn’t think it was true,” he says slowly, and if they were outside, he would be plucking a cigarette from his pocket. “I don’t bullshit, Stu.”

“That’s bullshit,” he can’t help but smile at the absurdity of the statement. “You spend ninety percent of your waking hours talking out of your arse!”

“Yeah, but not to you,” Murdoc clarifies, and, despite the staggering amount of alcohol they’ve consumed over the course of the night, and how it’ll be dawn before they know it, and in spite of the way the world keeps spinning them along at a speed that 2D struggles to comprehend sometimes, the moment becomes somehow sharper then, the intensity of Murdoc’s gaze sober, the gravity of his words like a planetary re-alignment.

_Oh_ , 2D thinks, _of course. That makes sense_.

“Okay, well then…I guess I just ask because…that was 2017. And I’m not getting any younger. I don’t have the vocal range I used to, from the cigarettes, probably. Sometimes performing stuff live, I think of how easy it used to be to slip up into high octaves. And I had more hair back then too. Don’t know if I could really pass for a ‘pretty boy’ these days, not like it’s something I need to do. Do you know what I mean, Muds? Like, I still like performing live, but d’you ever wonder how much longer I can carry our image? Not a spring chicken. I’m—”

“Right, just going to go ahead and cut you off there, pet. I know the beginning of a downwards spiral when I hear it,” Murdoc interjects, and he realizes it’s true. A niggling fear that’s been in the back of his mind for months now. Since he turned forty, if he’s being honest. He leans over the table, wanting to be closer to the bassist, and Murdoc meets his stare placidly. “Stu, I’ve had a bit to drink, but I’m going to give it to you as coherently as I can: you’re a rockstar. That makes you timeless, legendary. Think of Gene Simmons!”

“I’d rather not,” 2D admits. “Ew.”

“Okay, well, think Paul McCartney or Mick Jagger! Those blokes make us look like embryos, and they still sell out MSG whenever they go on tour! It’s because of their charisma, their talent, their mojo; the old bags are damn immortal!”

“And you think Gorillaz are immortal, Muds? You’re not just saying that as like, a Satanist or whatever?”

“No, I’m saying it because I’m abso-fucking-lutely confident that after being in the music industry for most of my life, I know talent when I see it. I’m not just patronizing you because you’re my boyfriend, Stu, I’m telling you: you’re a natural-born performer, and that shit doesn’t fade with age. You’re a blue-haired legend!”

2D leans back, drinks in the sight of Murdoc, drunk, laconic, confident in his words. “You’re really serious about me,” he murmurs after a long pause, punctuated by the Blondie that is now pouring out of the shitty speaker wedged above their booth.

“Duh,” Murdoc snaps. “Have been since I rammed into that pretty head with my Astra, but glad you’ve finally realized that I meant it when I said I knew you’d be the ultimate cash cow—”

“No, no. Not about my talent,” he answers, because really, who gives a damn whether he’ll be able to sell out MSG when he’s sixty years old? “You just called me your boyfriend.”

He sees the realization as it flickers into Murdoc’s dark eyes; like flash cotton, it’s a burst of bright, embarrassed understanding, almost instantly quelled by a more casual mask that 2D is intimately familiar with. “Did I?”

2D smiles, lifts his long, long legs up to rest his feet on the tops of Murdoc’s thighs, making the bassist squirm a little. Maybe they’ve spent enough time at this dive bar. 2D is suddenly feeling electric, and a great deal younger than he was at the onset of their evening together. He’s a bit restless, wants to walk with Murdoc, to walk and smoke and find a sidewalk that will lead them along the water so they can watch dawn break as they’ve done countless times together. 

“Yeah, you did. You’ve never said that word before.”

“Well, you are, aren’t you?” Murdoc grumbles, playing at nonchalant.

“Oh yeah, only been dating since, what? 2017? 2018?”

“Only been a little bit in love since what, 1999?” Murdoc asks, voice gone all quiet.

Gracelessly, 2D stands, fumbling for his wallet so he can leave a tip at the table and hasten the bassist out the door. He’s known Murdoc loved him for years, decades even. Neither of them has had any reason to hide it. But he’s never heard Murdoc refer to him as his boyfriend before, and didn’t even know the word was in his vocabulary.

“Hey, Muds?” he asks when his sudden movement makes the bassist blanch. “Walk with me? I want to slip my hand in your back pocket, but that’s pretty hard to do when we’re slunk in a booth.”

“Oh, oh yeah, sure,” words tend to abandon Murdoc when he’s serious, and 2D smiles, revels in getting to see him when he’s this raw.

Nodding at the bartender that might look like someone they’ve worked with and who might just look like himself, both men step out into the cool night, Murdoc’s hands instantly going for his pack of cigarettes and 2D’s arm instantly snaking around his waist, pulling him close.

“Nice night for a romantic walk, eh?”

“It’s not night, idiot, it’s well into morning.”

“Well then, good morning, starlight,” Murdoc chuckles, inhales a breath of smoke and hands the cigarette to 2D.

“Good morning, handsome,” he replies, feeling giddy, like a girl on her first date. Like a first date he’s played out a million times before, that gets better and better each time.


	4. Song Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Four: Song Machine

It’s cloudy.

No, cloudy denotes clouds. Smoggy, then. All car exhaust and factory fumes. The water is still, but there’s enough movement that the waves slap against the side of the boat every so often, resulting in a familiar, pleasant, wet sound. 

Murdoc lies on his back, hands folded atop his chest, ankles crossed, staring at the bright spot where the sun is attempting to bore its way through the grayish sky.

He and 2D have been sitting in the boat in silence, though the singer has been moving enough for the two of them, playing with his sailor’s cap, untying his neckerchief and stuffing it into his pocket, scratching his ankle, lighting a cigarette and ultimately flicking it into the water.

“So this is it, huh?” Murdoc asks at length when he gets sick of watching 2D struggling in his periphery. 

“What?”

“This is what I missed out on?”

“Well I mean, it’s a little more fun when you’re driving around fast-like, but the sound of the motor gives me a headache. And it was fun with Damon too; he’s fun.”

“Yeah. Love that bloke,” he deadpans.

“Murdoc. Do you feel better now?”

“I feel like a million bucks, mate, never better, I haven’t felt this spry since that doctor prescribed me all that Vicodin when I slipped a disk lifting Noodle’s amp—”

“ _Muds_.”

2D shifts, looks down at him, and when their eyes meet, Murdoc is forced to confront the fact that yes, they’re here for him. To humor him the way a parent humors a child after a particularly vicious meltdown. “Well, look at it like this: what did you think taking me out here on the boat after the fact was going to accomplish, sunshine?”

“I brought you here to make it up to you, you nob. Because you made such stink about not being invited last time even though you could have come along if you’d only asked, had my damn phone on me.”

“Stu, you can’t recreate an event that’s already passed by bringing me here like it’s a bloody date.”

He stretches his foot out, knocks it against Murdoc’s shoulder. “You sure? A date on a boat sounds kind of romantic.”

Murdoc sighs and hoists himself up into a sitting position: the garish lighting is hurting his eyes: he wishes he’d thought to pack sunglasses. He can only imagine what kind of migraine the bright glare is going to trigger for 2D. But now isn’t the time to play mother hen. “Does it? Cuz you don’t look nearly as relaxed or happy as you did in that Désolé video, mate.”

He draws his foot back, knees folding in towards his chest. “Muds, look. I’m allowed to have fun without you. There’s no rule stating that I can’t. We’ve talked about the importance of autonomy.”

“And I’ve also expressed my disdain for that bloody word. I’m too old to bother being my own person: I just want a little of whatever you’re doing.”

“So that’s how you really feel, huh?” he snaps, jumping to his feet. “Muds, how many times do we have to have this argument? That’s not healthy!”

“Neither is smoking, Faceache! Neither is drinking half my weight in forty proof before noon! Neither is dating me, so if you don’t want to deal with it, then tell me to fuck off, same way you did when you all fucked off through that portal without me!”

2D reaches up to rub his temples, almost knocking his captain’s hat off his head. It’s never as simple as Murdoc sitting down and confessing that he’s been hurt: it’s always violent waves, outbursts cresting until they crash against the shore. He brought Murdoc out here to see what all the fuss was about cruising around on Lake Como, but now he understands: Murdoc is more like the water than he is like a captain. He is aqueous, ever moving, flowing from areas of high pressure, knocking 2D to and fro as he attempts to feel settled, grounded. The solution to understanding him is seldom obvious at first glance, because his very nature is to change his tune like an ebbing and flowing tide.

This entire outburst was never a matter of feeling left-out, it’s been paranoia from the start, Murdoc’s absurd fear that his own band is set to leave him behind one day, that same paranoia he’s been nursing since _The Now Now_ took off while he was in prison.

“I’m sorry,” 2D says. It used to be hard to say those words. He’s learning to push them out more often, especially because that small concession is, more often than not, enough to start soothing Murdoc. “I guess we both thought we were going to get something different by coming here. Muds, what I did was fly all the way back to Italy to sit on a stupid boat with you for the day. It was probably stupid of me to assume that you were going to have a good time here—”

“‘Stupid’ is a damn gargantuan understatement if you ask me,” he grumbles.

“Don’t interrupt! Look, I didn’t come here for a fun, magical time with you, you cranky old man. I came here to prove a point.”

Murdoc looks at him warily. “And what, my blue-hued compatriot, is it?”

A suave, quick-witted man would be able to weave together an elaborate story on the spot. Hell, if he were even adequately sharp with words, he’d be able to lay on the charm, distract Murdoc from the tension and the muggy heat and the miserable sun glaring down through all that pollution. The longer he stares at Murdoc’s tired features, though, the more it dawns on him that he doesn’t need to do that. He has something much more valuable: the truth.

“I did all this shit to prove to you that you’re worth it.”

Murdoc snorts. “Wow, so even you admit it was a crap trip then. Sorry to waste a full day of your time with my selfish needs, Stu.” He makes sure that his bitterness comes across acrid enough to drown out any traitorous hurt that leaks into his voice. He’s getting weaker around Stu; words slip out unbidden almost every day, truths he doesn’t need anyone knowing, feelings and fears that he’s spent his life concealing easily behind his bigger-than-bigger-than-Jesus personality. Honesty with his feelings around Stu has rapidly evolved into an unconscious mechanism, one he now has to strategize to neutralize at every turn. “Really don’t know why you spent money on a flight, all that time packing, renting the same damn boat, even, if you didn’t want to fucking do it. You’re a real headcase, y’know that?”

“You done with the pity party?” 2D asks. “Because you’re misunderstanding. I did all this, and I would have done anything else, to prove to you that at the drop of a hat, I’ll re-create any part of my life to put you in it beside me.”

There’s a familiar clenching feeling in his chest, a tightness. Dread. Sometimes he feels it when 2D starts to make him hopeful too, because hope is a dangerous bit of deception that leads to disappointment. Cousins, the two sentiments are. Or even twins. He hates hope as much as he hates dread: he’s not about to fall for that shit, no way—“Dents. What were you just saying about our codependency being unhealthy? Those don’t sound like the words of someone autonomous: best check yourself or your therapist is going to give you a right spanking.”

The singer smiles, knowing that he has Murdoc now. His attention, his optimism. It’s all there, in his grasp if he can make like the boat, rock with the waves but remain steady, solid. “You’re wrong,” he says. “I won’t apologize for having come out to have some fun in February. We’ve told you why we didn’t trust you with the portal, but I still would’ve brought you along if I’d known how upset you were going to get. I had every right to have a good time with friends, but I am sorry that it sent you into one of your spirals, thinking I was rejecting you. Never, Murdoc. I would never. So here’s my compromise: for the moments you feel scared, instead of me trying to go back and re-create the past with you, let’s just make our own memories. Sound good?”

The bassist stares at him, dumbfounded. “Are you angry?” he finally asks. “That I’m being so selfish? Where’s your spine, Dents, your bloody vitriol?”

“You’ve always been a selfish prick: bit used to it by now.”

“But…but this flies in the face of all that shit about being more individualistic and—”

“Muds, I’m still going to spend time away from you,” he clarifies. “Have fun with Noods and Russ, might even give Ace a ring one of these days—”

“Oh sweet Satan, don’t call that idiot—”

“My point is, I’ll still do all those things. And then when I get back from my time away from you, whether you’ve done something productive with your life while I was gone, or just sat by the window waiting for me to get home, then we can do something nice too, maybe not a boat ride in Italy, maybe just like, having a few pints down at the Cock and Trowel, or going shopping, or trying that new cafe that opened up in SoHo to see how their pancakes rank on our Definitive List of Pancake Places—”

He’s interrupted by Murdoc lunging forward, arms going around his middle and head slamming into his chest. He grunts, hugs him back as the boat rocks with their sudden movement.

“How?” he mutters. “How are you always so nice to me? Every time I go and muck things up and say horrible things and tell you to break it off with me—”

“You’re a little dramatic,” 2D admits, nuzzling his chin against the thick hair pressed just below his head. “Pretty sure you told me I should call it off when you broke my favorite mug last week. It’s uh, not great. But I think when you say shit like that, it shows me that you really care about our relationship, that you value me, and you’re scared that I’m valuing you too much, because you don’t feel like you deserve it. I’m learning to understand when you’re just asking for help, idiot.”

“You really do spend way too much time with your therapist, Stu.”

“I’m not wrong, am I?” he teases, holding the older man closer, triumphant. “Stop throwing shit fits. Stop assuming everything I do is an attempt to push you away, and start looking at my behavior for what it is: a bloke who’s gone utterly mental and will fly you out to Italy at a moment’s notice to try and cheer you up after I saw you cry a little bit.”

Murdoc steels himself in 2D’s arms, braces himself to put forth the question he needs to ask. “And what do you get in return then, Romeo?”

“That bit’s obvious, Murdoc. I get to see you happy. That’s what makes me happy. I love you, remember?”

“I…” the words die on Murdoc’s tongue. What is there to say to that? He wants to talk 2D out of this…he knows he should. He’s being let off the hook because this idiot is convinced that they can keep going forward, that he somehow deserves 2D’s patience and love, even when he’s getting caught up in his own Twitter lies. Yet the singer’s words are guiding him out to sea, pulling him away with the strength of a rip current, and all he can do is succumb. It’s what he wants to hear. Maybe a part of 2D even believes these words himself, however ludicrous they are. “I…you already know how I feel about you.”

“Say it, twat. Or else I’ll keep you here on this lake all day just to torture you!”  
“Alright, alright, no need to get so Medieval on me! I love you, okay, Stu? I act out and cause a scene, and then I don’t even thank you for the impromptu Désolé 2.0 because I’m a shit, but I love you all the same. Maybe even a little more because you just keep…tolerating me. Happy?”

“Yeah,” he presses a kiss to the top of his head, and his tone tells Murdoc that he’s smiling. “So let’s go back to England, okay? This lake is pretty boring honestly.”

“It is dreadful, yeah.”

“Oh, while we’re here, maybe we should stop for pizza! Or some spaghetti or something?”

“Dents, we’re practically in Switzerland,” he laughs. “Why not hop the border and—wait, that’s it! I know the perfect spa we can go to together! Ever soak in a hot spring? It’ll change your life.”

“That sounds perfect!” he says. “Let’s dock this baby and get going—” he releases Murdoc and, ever-ungraceful, he stumbles as he makes his way towards the front of the boat. He yelps as his leg catches on the edge of the boat and his vision swirls first with the sights of the houses along the shore giving way to sky, and then the sky blurring as he hits water and starts sinking.

For just a moment, he processes everything as though it’s happening in slow motion, taking in the fact that his nice sailor’s outfit is surely ruined, that the water is colder than he expected it to be, wondering if any sea monsters lurk beneath the lake’s surface as he looks straight down into the black depths below him.

Then comes the irony. Yes, this is what time with Murdoc is like: filled with twists and unpredictable tumbles. Murdoc’s self-doubt and fears are still somewhat new to him: he’s spent most of his life assuming the man was fearless, only to learn that the bravado was a mask, that he’d been one of the few idiots to fall for it so completely. It’s something they must continue to work on, the selfishness, the manipulative words and the self-destructive explosions that follow them in Murdoc’s unhealthy attempts to self-punish.

How peaceful it is underwater, though. How familiar, this sensation, and how safe he feels.

His eyes have closed at some point to better absorb the feeling of being submerged, but he perceives motion right in front of him, bubbles.

Arms come around his waist, and he knows Murdoc has leapt in after him, that he means to swim to the surface, pull them both up onto the boat. He isn’t ready to come up just yet. Instead, he leans forward, presses his lips to Murdoc’s.

In the middle of the water, in the middle of a foreign country, they come together, holding one another tight, safe and soundless in the protective peace beneath the ever-lapping waves.

He always feels so complete like this, so blessedly whole when the warmth of Murdoc’s body is pressed flush against him. Time always seems to vanish in these moments as they share the last fo their breath, hair dancing around their heads like halos, bodies undulating with the motion of the water. For the first time that day, he feels calm.


	5. Quarantine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Five: "Get Lost with 2doc," AKA 2doc during quarantine.
> 
> Also an excuse for me to write some absolute silliness and to shamelessly drag fics that write out 2D's speech patterns phonetically (which is slightly hypocritical of me because I've done that in fics too. Let's all make a pact to stop doing that!)

“You ready, Muds?”

“This is an astonishing waste of time, Stu—”

“On three, then?”

“…fine.”

“Great! One, two, three…go!” 2D jumped out of his room, a little confused to find that Murdoc was already standing in the hallway, staring at him. “Hey, you cheated.”

“I came out on _three_ , you came out on _go_. You just said ‘on three—‘"

“Well yeah, but you count to three and then you—”

“Nevermind,” he cut him off, smirking. “Mate, you look ridiculous.”

“You’re one to talk!” 2D clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle the giggle that threatened to end the sentence in a highly undignified high pitch.

Murdoc was dressed in the clothes 2D had worn in their “Saturnz Barz” video, complete with a pair of blue trousers that looked uncomfortably tight, belted way above his paunch, and a black button-down, opened to reveal a tempting tuft of coarse hair. His chest looked alien without his usual upside-down cross. Without thinking, the singer reached up to his own chest, where the cross sat between his skin and the worn material of Murdoc’s striped jumper. 

“Those pants look more like capris on you!” the bassist cackled, pointing at his bare ankles. 

“Shut up! The jumper suits me quite well, don’t you think? The color brings out my hair. Least I don’t look like the male whore in some B-movie!”

“Mate,” Murdoc was still laughing, and having a hard time getting his words out. “You can’t say I look like a whore when I’m dressed as you!”

“I wore that outfit better than you!”

“Great, so can we agree that we both look completely mental?”

“I don’t think that’s entirely fair; I think I pull off your frumpiness like a model!”

“That jumper was designed for someone with a complexion more like my own.”

“Green, you mean green skin?”

“Well, I guess green is a state of mind,” he grumbled, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “So slip into that mindset, turtledove, because for the rest of the day, you’re me.”

“Oh, I’ve had two decades to observe you, Muds,” he replied casually, leaning against the doorframe. “All I have to do is act drunk, shout every hour or so about how great my band is, and go out of my way to grate on everyone’s nerves. Easy. Think that mastering the nuance of my enigmatic personality will be way harder for you.”

The bassist-turned-frontman rolled his eyes and moved to brush past him. “All I have to do is not think for the rest of the day. This’ll be a bloody vacation, pet.”

“Hey wait, before we start officially, give me a kiss,” he requested, catching the shorter man by the simple gold necklace—his necklace—around his neck, dragging him in closer and pausing as their lips hovered over each other.

“Am I kissing you as Murdoc, or as 2D?”

“As hot as a little 2D-on-2D action sounds, I want a kiss from my boyfriend.”

“Needy bitch,” he chuckled, but he obliged, pressing the taller man against the wall and kissing him languidly, reaching underneath that hole-filled sweater to trace the cross against his boyfriend’s chest. “Let’s stick a pin in that idea, huh? Now then, shall we pop off? There’s a certain drummer I’m dying to pester with my extensive knowledge of zombie flicks.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll go see if Noodle notices the difference—oh, careful!” He reached out quickly and caught the shorter man as he tripped over his slightly-too-big shoes. “Watch it, luv. Being me is a right safety hazard.”

Grinning mischievously, the two parted ways, and the man formerly known as 2D made for the living room, where Noodle could be found flipping through a magazine.

“Noods!” he crowed, doing his best to sound gruff and Stoke-on-Trent-y. “I’ve got some g _rrr_ eat news! I tried a new skin-care product and it took decades off my skin. I’d say I look at least twelve years younger: what do you think?”

She glanced up and frowned. “What fresh stupidity is this?” she asked.

“Stupidity? Don’t be so rude, poppet, I look good don’t I? Don’t worry; there’s no shame in admitting that a bloke so many years your senior is more attractive than you, really.”

“2D,” she sighed. “Why are you impersonating Murdoc?”

“Impersonating? I _am_ Murdoc!”

“Sure you are. And is Murdoc also Murdoc, or is he 2D?”

“Um…wait, I’m confused…” he paused to try and track what she’d just said, and he realized that he had completely broken character. “Sod this! Your questions just show that you’re…you’re confused by my superior genius!” Yeah, that sounded about right.

She tapped the magazine on her lap impatiently. “I’m trying to gauge my astrological compatibility with Tessa Thompson right now,” she said. “Can you come back to be annoying and strange later?”

“Er…but I…”

“Get lost, Murdoc.”

She’d done it! She’d acknowledged his acting skills! Satisfied, he turned on his heel, his mission complete. “Right, enjoy flipping through that trashy magazine telling you what nail polish color will make Tesla love you! I’m going to sit here and watch my soaps!”

“It’s…nevermind.” She sighed, looking like she had a lot more to say, but no energy to say it, and ‘Murdoc’ cheerfully flounced across the room to grab the remote, moving with more spring in his step than he’d had in decades.

Meanwhile, Russel was in the kitchen, preparing himself a hoagie of epic proportions, having been inspired by one of his favorite cooking shows. Just as he was debating whether to opt for dill or bread and butter pickles (or both? life was short), a nicotine-laden pair of lungs cleared themselves right behind him.

“Oh no,” he said, spinning around. “I’m having ‘me time:’ whatever stupid scheme you’re up to, it can damn well wait, Murdo—” he froze, pickle jars in hand, and after a moment, he bent over in a ground-shaking belly laugh. “You look ridiculous!”

“W-wot d’yew mean, Russ?” he asked, pressing a finger to his lips in an attempt to look juvenile. “It’s me, 2D, innit?”

“Murdoc, that belt looks like it’s constricting your ribs, and your belly is about to pop out. What gives?”

“Nofink gives, just fought I’d try on my old cloves from ‘Saturnz—”

“Man, if you don’t stop talking like that immediately, we’re going to have bigger problems than whatever wardrobe malfunction this is.”

“Easy, easy, big guy! I’ll cut back on the Cockney accent! Fortunately I’ve picked up the ability to speak a bit better in recent years. Can you understand me now?”

“Not at all,” he said dryly. “Why are you dressed like 2D?”

“Mate, I _am_ 2D! The adorable and absentminded singer for our band!” the dark-haired 2D insisted stubbornly.

Russel stared at him, ready to launch into yet another insult. Then he considered the two pickle jars in his hands. “So uh,” he shrugged. “What day of quarantine is it?”

“Oh, seventy-three or seventy-four, something like that. But who’s counting?”

“So you two are just messing around because you’re bored.”

“Well, it’s more fun than making a sandwich, wouldn’t you say?” he asked, smirking, realizing 2D wasn’t really the smirking type, and settling on a softer smile.

Russel weighed his options, and decided the prospective entertainment value was too good to pass up. “Well then, ‘Dee,’ do you want to make this monster sandwich with me? You can regale me with stories of what it’s like in your head the whole time.”

Murdoc—no that wasn’t right—‘2D’ beamed at him and nodded. “I’d love nothing more! Could probably use some extra calories, frail little waif of a man that I am.”

“Oh yeah,” Russel agreed, playfully patting his middle-aged potbelly. “You’re a real waif. Now grab the mustard.”

“You got it, Russ! Yellow or spicy?”

“Yes!”

Several hours later found the singer and bassist reunited in 2D’s bedroom. They sat together, swapping their clothes back piece-by-piece: first 2D pulled the striped jumper over his head, then Murdoc unbuttoned the black shirt as though he were giving a strip tease. They giggled the whole time, each looking particularly relieved when their pants came undone and they could step into comfortable sweatpants once again.

“I’d say outfit-swap was a roaring success!” Murdoc said cheerfully, grabbing a sip of a lukewarm beer sitting on the bedside table.

“I don’t know about that…I think Noodle and Russel were just humoring us.”

“Well at first, sure,” he conceded, gracing the singer with a kiss as he reverently returned his cross necklace to him. “But I think that as we really got into character, they forgot that we were simply acting. Once this quarantine ends, we should head back to LA and reconsider the whole movie star thing!”

“I’ll pass on that,” he replied, pulling a face, then falling down onto his bed, motioning for Murdoc to finish his drink and join him. The older man happily obliged, and the mattress creaked slightly at their combined weight as they cuddled together. “So…what are we going to do tomorrow to annoy the others?”

“We could speak only in riddles the whole day!”

“What if I’m not smart enough for that?”

“Was that a riddle?” Murdoc asked, cackling as he got a poke in the ribs for the comment. “Gentle, gentle! I’ve got it: let’s speak the way people write your dialogue online.”

“Not the super Cockney?”

“That’s right! Let’s speak like Dick Van Dyke attempting to sound like a proper Brit! That’ll be a right laugh!”

“You’re so cruel: what did Noodle and Russel do to deserve you as their bandmate?”

“Hey,” he teased, “you were in on today’s game.”

“Fine, I’ll consider the Cockney schtick, but I think you can do better. Keep working on it.”

“Yes sir,” he agreed, nuzzling into the singer’s neck. “So, we still have the night ahead of us: what did you want to do?”

2D was quiet for long enough that he began to get a little suspicious. “Stu? Simple enough question, luv. What’s on that pretty mind of yours?”

“I was just thinking, Muds…” another long bout of silence.

“ _Yes_?” he prodded. 

“Would you still be up for that 2D-on-2D action we were joking about earlier?”

Murdoc pulled away from him abruptly, and he scrambled to follow the bassist, to apologize for the stupid suggestion. As he opened his mouth to voice his mortification and backtrack, Murdoc caught his eye with a playful smirk and slowly pulled his necklace off. “Mate,” he said, voice unusually high, like he was trying to imitate someone else, “I fought yew’d neva ask!”


	6. Milestones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Six: Milestones
> 
> Minor milestone: staying the night.

Afterwards, when we have slept, paradise-  
comaed and woken, we lie a long time  
looking at each other.

I do not know what he sees, but I see  
eyes of surpassing tenderness  
and calm, a calm like the dignity  
of matter.  
-“The Knowing” by Sharon Olds

It’s quiet.

There isn’t a soul moving in Kong, and although white light streams into the windows of the Winnebago, 2D feels certain that he could fall back asleep if he only threw a hand over his eyes.

He’s too scared to move though.

He has never seen the room illuminated by early-morning sun before. The way it glimmers as it streams through the empty beer bottles on the small kitchen table is novel, the long shadows it causes to stretch out from the legs of the single stool beside the old boombox are alien. It’s sort of like going to your first school dance, the strange feeling of passing your classroom and seeing it in the darkness that Autumn ushers in so early, devoid of its usual fluorescent glow and apathetic teacher. It’s like being in a movie theatre when you stay till all the credits have rolled and the lights flicker back on and the chairs and the soundproof walls all look so outlandish in comparison to the film you just enjoyed.

He is in a new place, tangled in Murdoc’s bedsheets before noon, clad in only his boxers and with the older man breathing noisily beside him.

No, sleeping with Murdoc isn’t new. By now he feels familiar letting himself in with a sixpack or one of his novelty bongs or the mixtape an old buddy had made for him that he’s rediscovered while sorting through the boxes of shit that he’s moved from Crawley to Essex. He knows well the pattern, the drinks, smokes, songs, and the way they ultimately lead to kissing and kissing and kissing and finally to Murdoc’s unmade bed, the ratty sheets, the disposal of clothes onto the floor. It is a rare thing to be allowed into his Winnebago. Somehow, 2D has accelerated past that rarity and into a new realm entirely.

Still, this is unknown territory even for him. He wants to bolt.

He absolutely should bolt.

But getting up out of bed will jostle Murdoc. Plus, he’s never been known to move gracefully. Rising to leave will likely lead to him tripping over a table leg, a stray bottle of vodka, or his own feet. The inevitable yelp, crash, cacophony of debris being scattered in the wake of his flailing arms. Another routine he is accustomed to.

The only option, it would seem, is to continue lying here, counting his breaths to keep the rise and fall of his chest even, and watching Murdoc’s sleeping, morning sun-lit face with all the reverence he dares allow himself to feel. 

Denying his feelings would be futile. He knows he loves Murdoc, and he’s known it for a long, long time. Despite the constant jokes from the rest of the band and from the press, 2D is not really as stupid as he’s made out to be. He understands well the uselessness of falling for someone so irreversibly damaged and borderline sociopathic in his treatment of other people as Murdoc Niccals.

So what, then, is he just supposed to look at those dark eyelashes, this bent, broken nose, the dark circles under Murdoc’s eyes and the splash of black ink just visible where his shoulder disappears under the blanket, and feel nothing? 2D has been raised to be a gentle boy: he doesn’t know if he’s capable of pursuing a carnal relationship without letting something soft and gooey and tender ooze in.

It’s one of the great mysteries of life how anyone can get to know Murdoc Niccals and not fall in love with him, 2D thinks.

That’s why he continues to watch the older man, to listen to the loud whistle of air traveling through his nose as he breathes. It’s why he drinks in the sight of the room, and then moves on to meditating on the places where their bodies touch: their bare knees are pressed together, 2D’s left against Murdoc’s right. The older man’s arm is pressed between them, the hair of his forearm just a bit ticklish against 2D’s side just beneath his ribs.

He loves it, the warmth where their skin connects, the peaceful silence between them—he’s never known Murdoc to be quiet, but sometimes when they’re lying together before they fall asleep, Murdoc just rests, not feeling any need to attack the quiet that expands between them: there’s a sort of companionship that exists around them that doesn’t need to be interpreted or interrupted.

And even if Murdoc is in one of his chattier moods, 2D will always listen. He loves Murdoc’s snoring, loves his silences, loves his expansive repertoire of speaking about absolutely nothing for hours on end, 

loves him.

Obviously and intensely. 

He mouths the word to the ceiling, confident that the Winnebago can keep a secret. Love. It’s just nice, he figures, to see the way it fits in his mouth, the way it might roll out if he ever works up the nerve to throw it into a song, which is the most indirect way he’ll ever be able to put the truth out there without flat-out telling the older man.

Just once, once is enough to get the gist, and then he decides to indulge and watch Murdoc sleep a little longer

2D inclines his head just slightly—and finds Murdoc’s dark eyes open, watching him.

His pupils are small in the bright sun, and the brown of his right iris pools with the light, illuminated in a way 2D has never seen it before. His left eye glistens less like blood or ruby, more like mulled wine. There is a long moment where 2D can only stare at the display before him in wonder. Then it all clicks.

“Um,” he says, his first word of the day. “Sorry. I’ll leave.”

If he doesn’t get out of the bed in a matter of seconds, he anticipates that he’ll be kicked out physically.

“I can see your pupils in this light,” Murdoc grumbles, voice dreamthick and dry.

“What?”

“In this bright light,” he repeats, shrugging his shoulder to accentuate what he’s saying. 2D, who has been blinking in the harsh light for a while already, knows exactly what he’s referring to. “I can see your red eyes and your black pupils. The blood, I guess. Looks cool.”

“Thanks,” he says, swinging one leg over the edge of the bed. “Anyway, I’ll see you later—”

“What’s the rush?” Murdoc asks around a yawn, stretching his legs and letting out a dinosaur-like screech of pleasure as his joints crack. “You have a press conference you failed to tell me about, Dents?”

“Um, no…”

“Right, so what’s the rush? It’s the ass-crack of dawn and I’m comfortable. I don’t exactly appreciate being jostled this soon after rising. Aren’t you? Comfortable?”

2D’s brain works through everything that’s just been said to him, including how impressive it is that Murdoc is capable of constructing full sentences this soon after waking up. There are some factual errors in Murdoc’s reasoning, sure. He’s certain dawn was hours ago, and it’ll be noon before long. However, he’s also fairly certain that Murdoc is implying that because he’s comfortable and wants to remain in bed, 2D is encouraged to do the same. In the years he’s known Murdoc, he has never, not once, mentioned ‘mornings after’ with lovers. Because lovers do not stay in Murdoc’s bed till sunrise.

“I…I can stay, Muds?”

“Why not?” he asks, shifting so that one of his arms cushions his head, his free arm draping comfortably around 2D’s waist. “The art of lazing and lounging is a vital one, you know.”

2D nods, shifts a little closer to Murdoc. They’re not cuddling, not exactly. But they are laying together in a very companionable manner. Post-coital, except that they haven’t done anything since last night, and this makes 2D feel simultaneously thankful for this peaceful, affectionate restfulness and also very, very anxious.

He’s hyperaware of his heartbeat, wonders if Murdoc can feel it in the places where they touch, or where his arm now holds him. He also wonders whether or not it’s very obvious how much he feels he must be blushing right now. These things are hard to conceal with a complexion as fair as his own.

“This uh, it is kind of nice,” he admits at length, when he rediscovers the synapses that fire between his brain and his tongue.

“Hm,” Murdoc grumbles, the effect sort of like the purr of a contented old cat in a patch of sun. “We should go back to sleep,” he adds.

Only he doesn’t close his eyes, he keeps watching 2D. And 2D is staring right back, acquainting himself with each blood vessel in Murdoc’s eyes, with the stubble on his chin and the thick tufts of hair that curl just slightly at the ends of his mop top.

Ultimately, they wind up staring, almost hypnotized by one another’s eye contact, for a very long stretch.

2D knows only the blink of Murdoc’s eyes, the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat: both movements consistent and unconscious.

At some point, they move closer. It’s too early in the morning for either of them to parse through who moves first, all they know is that they drift into one another, and then there’s kissing.

They kiss languidly, as though they are moving underwater, and it is the most unhurried 2D has ever felt in a moment of intimacy. It’s as pleasurable and laconic as a morning stretch, and he savors the quickening of his own pulse, the slickness of Murdoc’s lips gliding against his own.

Okay, he’ll stay here all day if he can.

He’ll stay the night anytime he comes to Murdoc’s Winnie from now on. If he can help it, he thinks, as Murdoc shifts, bare legs rubbing against his, one hand cupping his face very gently, he’ll stay by his side for the rest of his life.


End file.
